The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  She tugged on her chemise, catching his gaze as she did so.

  Face heated, he gestured toward the embers. “I’ll stir the fire back to life.”

  “Thank you.”

  He reluctantly turned away. The fire had long since died down, only a few embers remaining, so he added wood, and then blew on the embers until flames rose to lick hungrily at the wood. Satisfied, he put the fire iron back in the rack and checked his boots. As they were still damp, he left them by the warm fire.

  Murian came to stand beside him. She was dressed, her hair unbound, her boots upon her feet. She held a comb and sent him a shy look as she sank onto the settee. “Thank you. Last night was . . . well, I feel much better.”

  “Thank you. I will never forget last night.” Never.

  The words hung between them and her shy smile faded.

  She dropped her gaze to her comb. “You . . . you seem unhappy.”

  “I was thinking that I must leave soon.”

  “When you find the tiara, of course.” She seemed to say it aloud as much for herself as for him.

  “Aye, but not just yet.” He would stay as long as he possibly could. It wouldn’t be enough, he already knew that. But it was all he could do. “Before I leave, I’d like to see all of the cottages fixed.”

  “There’s not much left to be done that we canna do ourselves.” She ran the comb through her hair, pausing when she hit a tangle.

  He’d thought the same thing on waking up, yet somehow the words stung coming from Murian. “I still must recover the Oxenburg crown, and . . . there are other things, too.”

  Murian paused in untangling her hair. “What other things?”

  “Matters of state. Nothing that would interest you. Besides, you have enough to do with your villagers and finding the journal.”

  Her gaze narrowed on him, and it was as if, for a second, she could see right through him. “You are involved in some sort of political intrigue.”

  Bloody hell, could she see into his soul? “I am no politician.”

  She flashed him a look of disbelief. “Max, do you remember last night? I am not a patient woman. I’ve already proven that.”

  He had to smile. “You have. And very well, too. But I must point out that we’ve a spy somewhere, so it’s better to keep any information on an as-needed basis.”

  To his surprise, she hesitated and then nodded. “We must find that spy before our next foray. Perhaps—”

  “Nyet. There will be no more attempts at breaking into the castle.”

  She frowned.

  “You were almost caught last night. They would have shot you.” Even now, he could taste his fear on seeing the guards with their pistols drawn, pointing in the direction he’d known Murian to be hiding.

  Her jaw firmed. “No matter what either you or Ian say, I willna give up hunting for the journal.”

  Ah, so that was what they’d argued about. For once, Max found himself in agreement with the grumpy old Scot. “We care for you. And of course you shouldn’t give up. But perhaps you should focus on something else until Spencer returns from war. Let him handle this.”

  “If he returns from war. Loudan has someone in Spencer’s employ who keeps my letters from him. What’s to keep that person from doing more?”

  “You believe Loudan might have his own brother killed?”

  “He’s killed before.”

  “That only proves my point. You’ll have to find another way to recover the journal.”

  Her lips tightened, but she didn’t answer, though she combed her hair with faster, more furious strokes.

  An uneasy feeling arose in him. “You agree, then? To hold off on trying to find the journal until Spencer arrives?”

  She put down her comb and quickly braided her hair. As soon as she finished, she fished a ribbon from her pocket, tied the thick braid, and then stood. “I appreciate your concern.” Her eyes were steely, her voice cool.

  And that was that. They were at a complete impasse. Max, feeling more upset and unsettled by the moment, sighed. Perhaps it would be best if he gave her some time to think about the dangers she’d faced last night. There was nothing she could do in the cold light of day, anyway.

  He picked up his damp cloak. “I must go before I am discovered missing. My men and I will be back later today. We will talk more when I return.”

  She went to the door and took her cloak from the peg.

  He watched her, rubbing the back of his neck where an ache was beginning to form. She was so brittle, so distant. This wasn’t how he wanted this to end, how he needed it to end.

  But before he could say another word she said, “Good-bye, Max.” And with those two cool, impersonal words, she left, closing the door behind her with a decided bang.

  Max went after her. As he stepped into the cold mist-covered street, his foot sank into an icy puddle. He looked down at his stockinged feet and yanked his foot from the water.

  Cursing up a storm, and swearing no one could deal with such a prickly Scottish woman including God himself, Max limped back inside Murian’s cottage, shoved his boots on his wet feet, and left.

  Chapter 20

  “Looking out the window will not help.”

  Max turned to where Tata Natasha sat beside the fireplace. She opened one eye to peep at him, and—apparently satisfied she had his attention—closed it again.

  It was midafternoon, and after a light luncheon the earl’s guests had dispersed: some to play cards, some to play billiards, some to read or write letters, while the more energetic rode out into the misty day and escaped the afternoon quiet of the castle.

  After a desultory game of billiards with some fellow guests, Max had gone in search of his grandmother and found her here, sound asleep in her favorite sitting room.

  “I will not consider it a visit if you do not sit.” Her eyes still closed, she kicked in the direction of the seat opposite hers.

  With a final look at the gray day, which matched his mood far too well, he took the suggested chair. “I’m glad to see you have awakened.”

  “I was not sleeping.” She opened one eye to glare at him. “If I’d wished to sleep, I’d have gone to my bed.”

  “You were snoring when I entered.”

  “That was deep breathing. It helps when I am solving a riddle.” She opened her eyes, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “I am trying to fathom why my grandson is moping about as if his favorite dog had died.”

  “I haven’t been moping.”

  “Pah! I know moping when I see it, and you’ve been moping.” Tata sent him a hard look. “You did not disappear this morning, as you usually do.”

  “Which should have made you happy.” He’d spent yesterday in the village working with his men, while Murian sent him cool, unconcerned looks as if she neither knew him nor cared.

  He knew what she wanted: his blessing and assistance in getting back into Rowallen, but he could not offer them. He was no longer willing to accept such a risk. He could have so easily lost her. . . . He clenched his jaw against the swell of emotion the memory brought him.

  This morning he’d sent the men on to the village without him, hoping to regain his usual logical perspective. Unfortunately, he found Murian’s absence as distracting as her presence. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, reliving each touch, each smile—

  He stirred restlessly, impatient with every damn thing.

  “What’s wrong, Maksim? And do not tell me ‘nothing,’ for I will not believe it.”

  What was wrong? Every second he spent in Murian’s company complicated both of their lives, yet he greedily wanted more and more of those seconds, hours and days. He wanted all of them, damn it. And he wanted her safe, away from harm. Is this what it’s like to see a loved one ride off to war? Bloody hell, I can never do that to anyone. His soul sank a bit more.

  “Max?”

  Aware of his grandmother’s gaze, he forced himself to say in a calm tone, “I stayed because I am expecting missives. I’m bei
ng a good guest, which you’ve wanted me to do since we arrived. But”—he shrugged—“no missives. I wasted the day.” He couldn’t keep the bitter-

  ness out of his voice.

  “There is daylight left; they could still come.”

  “They’d better. Our host is trying my patience.” Max tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. “Loudan knows that grand fit you staged was an effort to assist me. He’s been most annoying, asking after your health every time we meet.”

  Tata smirked. “He asked me, too. Once. I made up so many bloody fluxes and swollen cysts that he looked rather ill and left abruptly.”

  Max had to chuckle. “Next time, I will try the same.”

  “Just say the words ‘female humors.’ He will grow red and excuse himself.” Tata’s shrewd gaze narrowed. “I don’t suppose he also asked how, that same night, you ended up outside, singing like a drunken sailor?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “It does not matter. I know. You should not face armed men without a weapon. It is foolish.”

  “I was there to distract, nothing more. When Loudan mentioned it, I suggested it was one of my men who’d had too much to drink. He didn’t believe me, of course, but what can he say? He will not call me a liar. Not to my face.”

  “I wish he would,” Tata Natasha said sourly. “Then you could challenge him to a duel and we’d be done with this.”

  Max agreed. “He is very careful not to cross that line.” Which made it curious that the earl had done so with Robert. Perhaps the difference was that now the earl was surrounded by guests who would whisper about everything they saw and heard. Loudan had confronted Robert alone, with no witness but the earl’s own supporters. He wishes to keep society’s good opinion.

  Max rested his elbows on his knees and looked past his grandmother to the window, where the cold, heavy mist swirled over lush green treetops. He wondered what his men were doing in Murian’s village right now. Today, they were to address the muddied path that linked the cottages. After the snow and then the rain, the village appeared to be built in the middle of a large puddle. This morning, he, Orlov, and Raeff had decided the best way to approach the issue was to line the paths with as many stones as possible, which would take some work, but would be effective. He wondered if Murian would appreciate their efforts, or if she was still fuming about—

  “Are you going to tell me about her?”

  Max frowned, but didn’t answer.

  “Only two things make you sigh in such a way. One is food. The other, a woman. I know you’ve eaten today, so . . .” She shrugged.

  “I wasn’t sighing.”

  “Ha!” Her expression softened, and she placed her hand on his arm. “Maksim, tell me what is bothering you. It is not like you to sit about sighing and not doing.”

  “I am doing. I await missives.”

  “Pah! You are the general. Generals do not await common couriers.”

  “We have many concerns that require my attention,” he said pointedly. “A lost crown, for instance.”

  A faint blush colored Tata Natasha’s cheeks. “Oh, that.”

  “There are other things that need my attention as well.” Several other things, and none of them were going the way he wished. In his time at Rowallen, all he’d accomplished was repairing a few leaky roofs and finding himself uncomfortably entangled with an outspoken, red-haired temptress.

  On top of it all, he’d wounded her somehow. He’d stated a cold, blunt fact, something she already knew, that her quest for the journal was too dangerous to continue—but after thinking about it, he realized he’d been demanding. Not intentionally, but still . . . it was her fight, not his. He had no right to tell her what to do.

  He winced to think of how much a challenge his words must have sounded. If she threw herself behind a dangerous plan now, he’d only have himself to blame and—

  Something poked his knee. He scowled. “Tata, put down your cane.”

  She sniffed. “I asked you three times what this woman is like, but you did not answer. Is she so boring that you have nothing to say about her?”

  “She is not boring. She is . . . frustrating.”

  “And?”

  “She will not listen to a word I or anyone else tells her.”

  “So she is proud, then.”

  “Too proud for her own good. Worse, she refuses to follow the dictates of common sense, even when it comes to her own safety.”

  Tata nodded as if she liked that particular trait. “Like a Romany. We, too, are stubborn and proud, and perhaps not always so good at listening to advice of those who know better.” She leaned back in her chair, her black gaze never leaving his face. “Tell me more.” She waved her hand, her rings sparkling in the dim room.

  Murian never wore jewelry. She must have sold it. His jaw tightened. “She lives for one thing: to win Rowallen back for her people.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “The servants and others who were displaced when the earl took the castle. When Loudan demanded they leave, she took them into the woods, to some crofters’ huts where they would be safe and could live without interference from the earl.”

  “He interferes, does he?”

  “He punishes anyone who helps them.”

  “That vash.”

  “So he is. Her people are loyal to her and the late lord. To Loudan, that is treason.”

  Tata pursed her lips as if considering something. Finally, she inclined her head as if conferring a great privilege. “I will meet your woman. Bring her here.”

  “She is not my woman. She’s no one’s.” For now. His blood roared in protest at his thoughts, but he refused to flinch away. “She is trying to find her husband’s journal, for it holds the truth of what happened the night he died, before the fight. It could prove Rowallen does not belong to the earl.”

  Tata’s dark eyes lit with interest. “So this journal is here, in this castle.”

  “She believes so, da. Whenever she can sneak into the castle, she searches for it—or she did until Loudan realized what she was doing and increased the guard.”

  “He fears she will find it, then.” Tata pursed her lips. “Her motives are commendable.”

  “They would be if she’d show some reason in the way she goes about it. She risks her neck as if it were replaceable.” And it wasn’t. There would never be another Murian. There would never be another woman who would intrigue him as she did, tie his heart into knots and drive him mad with wanting.

  Suddenly impatient, he stood and took the few steps to the window, leaning his fisted hands on each side of the windowsill and looking out with unseeing eyes. Bloody hell, what am I to do? But there was nothing for it. She was who she was, with her own dreams and responsibilities that tied her to Rowallen as firmly as his responsibilities and family tied him to Oxenburg.

  It was impossible. Neither of them could step onto another path without betraying all they held dear. By not doing so, they were forced into betraying each other.

  He straightened and rammed his fists into his coat pocket, wishing he could release his tension with a good fight. What was he doing, staying here at the castle, when he could be—if not with her, then at least near her? Time was slipping away even as he breathed.

  He should go to her now. He’d have his horse brought around and—

  A movement in the drive below caught his eye and he leaned forward. There, by the front doors, were Orlov, Golovin, and Demidor. They’d just dismounted; two groomsmen were leading their mounts to the stables.

  Why are they returning so early? It is not yet dark.

  Orlov nodded at something Demidor said, then entered the castle.

  Max leaned to one side and looked east, where the woods encircled the manicured lawn. There, almost invisible unless one knew to look for it, the wagon lumbered behind the trees that circled to the back of the property. From there, it would be hidden behind the partially dismantled barn, out of sight and ready for use when the
y needed it again.

  Something must have happened that they returned so soon. He turned. “I must go.”

  “Why? What did you see?”

  “Nothing that need concern you.” He crossed to her chair and placed a kiss to her paper-thin cheek. “I will come to your room and escort you to dinner at eight.” He headed for the door.

  He was halfway across the room when she called out, “If you care for this girl, you must marry her.”

  He stiffened and slowly turned around. “It is not so easy, Tata.”

  “Isn’t it? Have you asked her?”

  “It is more complicated than that.”

  “Why?”

  “For many reasons. We have responsibilities, both of us.”

  “Pah! If you care for her, you will find a way around that.”

  “That is not all.” Max shook his head. “She has been a widow once; I will not make her one again.”

  “People die all the time, and not just in war.”

  “Da, but sometimes, the waiting can be as difficult as a death.”

  “You are not a rash general. You fight when you can win, and you do not sacrifice lives like chess pawns; it is why Oxenburg is in such a strong position. Our army, she is not big, but she is strong and smart. I’ve heard your father tell others how respected you are, how feared our army is, and how few deaths we experience compared to our enemies.”

  “But there is always at least one death. And one day, it will be mine. It only takes one bullet. I have seen it over and over.”

  “So you will just give up this gift that has been given to you, this love?”

  “I never said I loved anyone.”

  “You said it, though not in those words. You do not give up happiness for anything else. But knowing you will one day be in danger does not mean you must live as if you’ve already died. Look at your men! They marry.”

  “They have not seen what I have. They do not carry the news to the loved ones, see the despair, watch the light die from the eyes of women who know they will never love again, see the pain of little boys who thought their father could walk on water and would never be killed.” He shook his head. “I would die myself before I subjected Murian to that.”